


but a whimper

by BeeLove



Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Deathfic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-26
Updated: 2011-07-26
Packaged: 2017-10-21 18:37:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/228354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeeLove/pseuds/BeeLove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Harvey is remembering. And it's the worst fucking thing he could possibly do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	but a whimper

Mike liked poetry. For the life of him, Harvey could not comprehend why – of all the things he could use his brain for, memorizing rhyme and meter was not something that seemed useful in any capacity – but there it is. Just like everything else in his eidetic little life, Mike decided to do the exact thing that Harvey would not have done. _Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both._ Man, fuck that shit. Poetry didn't do a goddamn thing for anyone. It mostly led to drug over doses and alcohol poisoning and heads in ovens and bullets in heads. And ovens in bullets.

Man.

Fuck that shit.

Harvey sighs bitterly, and signals for the bartender to pour him another shot. He knocks it back, managing not to spill it down the front of his shirt. At his raised eyebrow, the bartender pours him another. At the fifty tucked into his palm, the bartender leaves him the bottle. _There's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out, but I pour whiskey on him._ The alcohol numbs him. At the same time, it doesn't. Harvey eyes the bottle – more than half full of very expensive scotch – and wonders if he was going to get kicked out for dumping it directly into his mouth. I'm too suave for your shot glasses, my good man, he can imagine telling the bartender as he's being tossed into the street, but if my high class elegance overwhelms you, I suppose I can leave.

God, the voices in his head are starting to sound like Mike. Remember the way he used to get ahead of himself when he spoke and when someone tried to interject, he had to stop and stare at them for a solid five seconds to let his brain catch up? Yeah, that's how they sound. Harvey sighs again and rests his forehead against the cool wood of the bar counter. Faintly, he can hear the bartender telling him, gently, that it's time to go Harvey. Is there someone I can call for you?

Harvey.

It's time to go.

The bartender ends up calling Louis. Fucking. Louis. Goddamn. Louis. To his credit – or discredit, Harvey couldn't decide – he doesn't gloat. Doesn't give him any bullshit. Doesn't wheedle him about the latest cases, clients, whatever it is that they're competing in now. He just drives, silently, with his fists clenched to white on the steering wheel. Harvey leans his head against the chilled window, and idly watches the lights of New York City paint smudges across his eyes. _The night is shattered and the blue stars shiver in the distance._ “Say that I'm bad at my job,” he begs, his voice high pitched. “Say that I don't deserve it. Say that Jessica picked the wrong man. God, fuck, just say something.”

“Harvey,” Louis swallows and the car slows to stop outside his penthouse. “I'm sorry.”

Mike used to recite poetry. In the quiet, happy moments right before falling asleep, he would curl up on his side with his head tucked against Harvey's collarbone. He would lay his hand flat on Harvey's stomach – not suggestive, not asking, not plotting, just _there_ – and he would whisper poetry. _i like my body when it is with your body. It is so quite new a thing. Muscles better and nerves more. i like your body._ Harvey would lie there with his eyes closed, just listing to the rise and fall of Mike's voice murmuring against his neck. He would run his hand slowly up and down the dips and dents of Mike's spine, rubbing his thumb over the notch at the base of his neck. _i like what it does, i like its hows._ It was the closest to I love you that either of them ever had the chance to get.

Apparently – and this was supposed to be a closely guarded secret, but it's almost impossible to have secrets when your lover is a lawyer (and Mike only ever called Harvey his lover when he was feeling playful, because that was what his gram called Harvey – when's your lover coming to visit again?) but. Apparently. Mike wrote poetry. He never let Harvey read it – never ever ever ever stop laughing Harvey I'm serious – but he wrote it. Old Harvey – the Harvey that hadn't yet enjoyed the face that Mike makes when he's coming (which is a beautiful sight to behold, all parted lips and wide, blown open eyes and flushed cheeks and) – would scoff, call Mike a name and threaten him against filling out forms in haiku meter.

New Harvey – the Harvey that has enjoyed the face that Mike makes when he's coming, as well as all the tiny (and not so tiny) noises he makes too (every single whimper and squirming moan and stuttering keen and babbling scream and) – wishes he had been granted permission to read through the countless notebooks Mike had undoubtedly filled. Once, for some random I Like Spending Money present, Harvey had bought him a moleskine journal. Mike reciprocated by hugging him for five full minutes.

They used to sit up together in Harvey's apartment. Harvey would read a book – an honest-to-God book (usually one from the Harry Potter series for the ten thousandth time – his favorite was the third; Mike's was the seventh) – and Mike would scribble away in one of his journals. Never the moleskine, though. He said he was saving it for something special.

They used to – And now it's hard because he's remembering. He's fucking _remembering_. And this is why he went to the bar in the first place. To forget. All of it. He doesn't want to remember what Mike looks like when he's smiling. God, Harvey loved his smile. He would tell him so too, and Mike's shy about compliments. He always turned his head away, hiding his blushing grin in his hand or his shoulder. _(the joking voice, a gesture I love)_ He doesn't want to remember how Mike would ride his bike, zipping past cars with his jacket fluttering in the wind, his tie thrown carelessly over his shoulder. He doesn't want to remember how the light would catch, bouncing off a window somewhere, and Mike would tear through it and it looked like he had wings. He was _flying_.

With bleary eyes, Harvey stares into the bright abyss of his refrigerator. He isn't even hungry. Most of the food is Mike's. Well. Food that Mike picked out for them. Well. Food that Harvey allowed Mike to pick out for them. Completely enamored with having access to a normal sized kitchen for the first time in his adult life, Mike had fully embraced the domesticity of grocery shopping. He would spend an obscene amount of time picking over the fresh fruits and vegetables from his hipster farmer's market.

He loved cooking. They went to restaurants and Mike would order something only so he could figure out how to make it and how to remake it better. Harvey, for his part besides paying for everything, loved watching Mike. He would would sit at one end of the counter, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, chin resting on one fist, and just watch. Mike chopped veggies as fast as he talked, so Harvey divided his time between staring at his hands or his mouth.

On one memorable occasion, he managed to sneak a piece of mango from the cutting board. Mike had ceased in his dicing of the fruit and stared, slack jawed, as Harvey popped the small morsel delicately into his mouth. _Forgive me they were delicious so sweet and so cold_ Cooking dinner – macadamia-crusted sea bass with mango cream sauce – had been put on hold for the few minutes it took Mike to pin Harvey against the counter and kiss the taste of mango from his lips.

Harvey sighs, closes the fridge quietly and leans against it. Slowly, he slides down the cool stainless steel to sit on the floor, his legs sprawled out in front of him. Angrily, he scrubs a hand over his face to dissuade the tears behind his eyes from creeping down his cheeks. It doesn't work. Nothing works anymore. Eyes blurred, Harvey draws his knees to his chest and digs his fingers into his scalp.

He can't hold onto them anymore. He sees Mike now and he isn't smiling. He isn't laughing. He isn't unconsciously biting on his lower lip as he flies through legal documents with a high lighter. There's a smear of red on his chest. Mike, you've got ink on your shirt. Mike, your pen exploded in your pocket – good move, rookie. _but if you look long enough, eventually you will be able to see me._ Mike, you've got blood on your shirt. Mike, your lungs exploded in your pocket – good move, rookie. Mike. What's wrong with you? Mike. Mike. Mike.

Baby?

Mike didn't die quickly. He gasped, coughing up blood on the sidewalk, in the ambulance, in the hospital. He didn't die in Harvey's arms. He died on the operating table. His fingers were cold when Harvey held his hand. His eyes were. His eyes didn't belong to him. His eyes belonged to a corpse. His skin was a greenish gray. His skin was sick. Doctor, is there something we can do for his skin? Doctor, is there something we can do for the stab wound? Doctor? Doctor? Fuck you.

Harvey didn't cry the whole time. He saved his tears for later. For when Mike would be better. For when Mike could kiss them off his face. Harvey didn't say I love you. He saved it for later. He saved it for when Mike would hear him. It didn't count unless he could hear it. _And that would be saying farewell, repeating farewell, Just to be there and just to behold._ Harvey regrets it now. Now. Now he's standing in his room when did that happen? There's a gun in his hand and a gun is better than a knife. He sits on his bed, the gun resting next to his knee. It's a small comfort. He stares at the numbers of his bedside digital clock. There's a small part of him that's proud to notice he can still read it, with all the tears and alcohol impairing his judgment.

 _This is the way the world ends_

It's a quarter to two in the morning and Harvey is thinking about how Mike died. This is how Mike died. Some asshole on the street stabbed him. This is how Mike died. Some asshole who was meaning to stab Harvey stabbed him. This is how Mike died. Some asshole that Harvey put away meant to stab Harvey and Mike got in the way. This is how Mike died. Mike stepped in front of a knife meant for Harvey. This is how Harvey died.

 _This is the way the world ends_

Mike gasped without air, leaning back into Harvey's chest, his hands stained from the growing spread of red. It leeched through his shirt, cartoon bright and deadly. The asshole pointed at Harvey, cursing 'you fucking deserve this, Specter'. The cops caught him three miles away, robbing a bank. He died in the resulting shoot out. Harvey barely remembered him – something to do with an abusive, drug dealing husband – from the old pro bono case.

You fucking deserve this, Specter.

Harvey sighs, wraps his hand around the gun. Presses the muzzle to his temple. Curls a finger around the trigger.

 _This is the way the world ends  
Not with a_

Bang.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for [this prompt](http://suitsmeme.livejournal.com/1110.html?thread=173142#t173142) at the [kink meme](http://www.suitsmeme.livejournal.com).
> 
> All the italicized lines are taken from various poems...
> 
> Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both.  
> \--Robert Frost; The Road Not Taken
> 
> There's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out, but I pour whiskey on him.  
> \--Charles Bukowski; Bluebird
> 
> The night is shattered and the blue stars shiver in the distance.  
> \--Pablo Neruda; Tonight I Can Write the Saddest Lines
> 
> i like my body when it is with your body. It is so quite new a thing. Muscles better and nerves more. i like your body. i like what it does, i like its hows.  
> \--e.e. cummings; i like my body when it is with your
> 
> (the joking voice, a gesture I love)  
> \--Elizabeth Bishop; One Art
> 
> Forgive me they were delicious so sweet and so cold  
> \--William Carlos Williams; This is just to say
> 
> but if you look long enough, eventually you will be able to see me.  
> \--Margaret Atwood; This is a Photograph of Me
> 
> And that would be saying farewell, repeating farewell, Just to be there and just to behold.  
> \--Wallace Stevens; Waving Adieu, Adieu, Adieu...
> 
> This is the way the world ends  
> This is the way the world ends  
> This is the way the world ends  
> Not with a bang  
> but a whimper  
> \--T.S. Eliot; The Hollow Men  
> (also the source of the title)
> 
> The recipe for their dinner can be found here:  
> http://allrecipes.com/Recipe/Macadamia-Crusted-Sea-Bass-with-Mango-Cream-Sauce/Detail.aspx


End file.
